


Blood Song

by Nevi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Infant Death, Loss, Lost Love, Pregnancy, The Calling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevi/pseuds/Nevi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He made the promise before the world changed; before their roads diverged.  When the future was still unwritten.  </p>
<p>Now nearly forty years have passed since the blight and despite being cured of the taint, Alistair finds himself joining the Hero of Ferelden on her calling.  A woman he once shared a life with.  </p>
<p>Before she disappeared - nearly twenty years earlier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Contains minor Inquisition (including JoH DLC) spoilers.

Are you really going to love me when I’m gone?  
I fear you won’t  
I fear you don’t.  
And it echoes when I breathe until all you see is my ghost.  
- _I Of The Storm_ , Of Monster and Men 

-

The tavern is dank, filled nearly to capacity with warm bodies who spill drinks and abhorrent pickup lines in the same breath. Bodies that press too close around him; an elbow in the ribs here, a pommel digging against a hip there - at least he hopes that was a pommel. Alistair is relieved when he finally spots her at a table in a dark corner. Her face is shadowed by the hood of her cloak, a glass of amber liquid between her hands.

Amell looks up at his approach and her ready scowl softens. The years have not done her justice, her eyes sallow and hard, new scars cut across the once untouched plains of her face and neck. She stares back into her drink as he takes the empty seat across from her. He notices a couple curious looks from the other patrons. A couple whispers from the gossip hungry. Wondering who would be fool enough to sit with the grizzled grey warden in the corner.

Her voice is thick when she speaks, cut glass in her throat. “I didn’t think you would come.”

“I made a promise.”

“So you did.” She finishes the last of her ale with a quick swig and calls the barmaid over. A pretty young thing with hope still in her eyes. She brings them ale in hearty mugs, the liquid spilling over the side and onto the table.

She presses an extra sovereign into the girl’s hand for her trouble and the girl’s eyes go wide. “Thank you my lady.”

Amell gives her a sad smile. “Just keep them coming Beth, and make sure we aren’t disturbed. I see Byron shuffling this way.”

Beth nods and moves toward someone just outside his peripheral view.

“Been here a while then?” Alistair asks.

“A couple weeks.”

Waiting he knows, for him. Wondering if he would come no doubt. Silence settles in their corner of the tavern as glass after glass is emptied. It isn’t quite the uncomfortable silence of the dead of night after a nightmare, the stifling silence. It’s merely the silence of two lives… two roads that long ago diverged. Roads that had crossed, twinned then separated again over their course.

Somewhere in the process of emptying the fourth glass she speaks: “How is the family?”

-

_Long ago there was a little girl who lived in a tower. She grew up surrounded by books, by knights and magic; but all she wanted was to feel the sun upon her face, the wind in her hair._

_But the girl was a prisoner of fear and politics and she was not allowed to leave._

_Until one day a hero of old: a grey warden, came to the tower and freed the girl…_

-

_Long ago there was a young boy who was sent to live at the chantry. A misplaced boy with the blood of a king, the blood of a dragon. A bastard prince that was not expected to ever sit upon the throne._

_A boy who was fine with that._

_But sometimes fate has other plans…_

\- 

He tips back the rest of his drink before he answers her with the polite disconnect usually reserved for nobles he doesn’t care for. He feels awful for it when she looks struck.

It wasn’t her fault.

He had abandoned her.

Twenty some years he had held the throne after Anora’s sudden death had left it vacant.

He isn’t sure if it’s the ale or his guilt that sits heavy in his gut but he suddenly feels sick. He moves a tentative hand across the table, curls his fingers around hers. Her hands are cold, the thin skin crisscrossed with scars.

She doesn’t pull away but she doesn’t look at him either.

-

_“I have something for you.”_

_He stands so fast the glass he had held onto just moments before crashes to the tavern floor, the remnants of mead seeping through the floor boards as he takes her in. Her hair halos her face in wild curls knotted with twigs. She looks tired, like she has travelled for days without sleep – and maybe she has. But there is a fire burning beneath the exhaustion, a smile pressed upon her lips that he kisses before she can say anything more._

_He kisses her chapped mouth, her tear stained cheeks and dirt stained brow, the hollow of her throat and he holds her close, so close, in fear that maybe this is just a dream, that she hasn’t actually returned to him after all this time. But she is smiling and she is laughing, tugging him closer; holding him tighter._

_He takes her face between his hands; whispers words like I love you and I missed you, I missed you, I missed you into her mouth and along her tongue and she echoes them back, arms around his collar, fingers digging into the hair at the nape of his neck._

_The months and seasons apart fall away in this moment and he doesn’t care what else she has for him._

_All he has ever needed or wanted is her._

-

The tavern empties as the hours grow dark and into light again as they sit. He has grown too old, too soft for this and the seat hurts his backside, his shoulders hunching under the weight of exhaustion. He lost count a long time ago at the amount of glasses that had arrived and then disappeared from their table.

Amell has fallen asleep, raven hair threaded with silver spills over the table. Her brow is creased in sleep and he wonders what demons she fights in her dreams.

He asks Beth which room is Amell’s and gives the girl a few extra sovereigns when she wanders over one last time.

His bones creak when he stands, feet numb from sitting so long. His head is muddied with ale but he manages the strength and coordination to lift Amell from her seat. Tucking a hand beneath behind her knees and back as he hoists her from her chair. She feels lighter than he remembers and he isn’t sure if it’s due to the strength the ale has loaned him or due to something he’d rather not think about.

“Alistair?”

Her voice is barely louder than the wind that rattles the windows and he smiles sadly when she wraps her arms around his neck and tucks her head beneath his chin. A gesture of long forgotten days.

The room is small but clean. Amell’s staff lays forgotten against a worn chair that is piled with books and her pack.

He lays her on the bed as the rising sun filters through the thin linen covering the only window. She curls into herself, shivering. He tries to tug the quilt beneath her and the cloak she still wears around her tighter without success. In the end he pulls his own cloak from his shoulders and lays it on her.

There is a soft knock at the door, and he retrieves his few possessions from the boy who stands there holding them. _Beth deserves a raise._ He requests a few things of the lad before he leaves: A late wakeup call. A meal with it. And a message that neither are still at the tavern if anyone is too ask.

He locks the door and settles next to Amell on the bed. It isn't the ideal situation, but his head aches and he is too tired and drunk to care. So he lays tight to the edge, back towards her and falls into a restless sleep.

-

_Her hair is spilled ink on the pillows and she smiles up at him as he moves above her. Her lips are red with kisses, from the stubble on his chin. He pulls gasps and mewls from her with his hips and his lips as he lays buried inside her. She pulls moans and ragged breaths from him with every buck of her hips, from her tongue along the hollow of his throat._

_In this moment he is happy._

_They have been apart too long, but she has returned to him with the words of a cure. A cure from blighted blood and certain death. Words of a future and all of the hopes they could never utter prior lest they turn to ashes in their mouths are suddenly spilled between them without care. Hearts lay bare in hope and happiness._

_In this moment the future is the sun._

_Bright._

_And there…_

\- 

His head is throbbing, eyes caked with sleep as he manages to pry an eye open to the day, the shadows have already grown long and he wonders at the time. 

There is warm heat pressed against his back, an arm draped loosely over his waist. He lays awake there for one breath, two. Her warm breath moves the hairs on his neck and his heart hammers in his chest.

He attempts to extract himself from the bed without waking her and fails.

When she pushes away from him there is fear and confusion in her eyes, fire licking up her arms in defense as she scrambles against the cloaks and quilts and presses herself against the headboard.

She’s a wounded animal ready to bite and it takes more than a minute before she calms, before recognition filters back into her feral eyes.

He is nothing but a ghost as he stands at the edge of the bed: She looks through him, eyes unfocused.

She clenches her jaw and looks towards her hands mumbling words he almost doesn’t catch. _Stop haunting me._

He says her name and she looks at him again, clearer. “Why are you here?” She whispers.

It’s a punch to the gut and before he can respond she wretches over the side of the bed, the contents of her stomach emptying into a chamber pot.

-

_She has been ill for three days. Three days they have been unable to travel, stuck at their camp at least two days from any town. She is too weak, too fevered, to bring the healing magic she needs to her finger tips and he feels helpless as no poultice seems to work. She lays shivering under a pile of furs and he wipes the sweat from her brow. The old mabari at her feet raises his large head to look at him, whining low._

_“I know, Dragon.” He whispers._

_Despite the time spent in the chantry he has never felt particularly pious. But in this moment he places a hand gently on her rounded belly and prays._

_Prays the Maker is listening, just one more time. Protect my family._

_Please._

_His fingers tremble as he recites the chant._

_Please._

_Hadn’t they already been through so much?_

_Please._

_Or maybe they had already used up their allotted amount of miracles. His blood doesn’t sing anymore. The cure has worked hasn’t it? She mumbles in her sleep, words he doesn’t understand._

_He prays._

_Maker,  
Please._

-

The lad from the previous night brings a meal of warm stew and cider not an hour later. He consumes it all within minutes. Amell sits in the worn chair by the window watching the evening sun paint the sky purple and gold, she hasn’t touched her meal, nor drank from the mug of cider she holds in her hands.

She doesn’t even look when he leaves the room, or when he returns later with water for the bath. He fills the small wash tub and lights the hearth as the light fades. The stew grows cold and still she doesn’t move.

He kneels at her side, repeats her name, once, twice, three times before she finally looks at him. Her eyes are dull, empty, and his heart catches in his throat.

He swallows it down: “I brought water if you’d like a bath?”

It sounds ridiculous as it leaves his mouth but her lips twitch and it gives him hope. She nods slowly and lets him lead her to the water. The water begins to steam as she mutters a brief incantation. She removes the cloak draped along her shoulders and he makes to leave when she stops him. Her hand rests gently on the crook of his elbow and she looks… lost. He waits for her to speak but in the end she merely turns from him and raises her arms above her head. It’s a movement that is more familiar than it should be after all this time. He pulls the stained tunic she wears over her head and arms. The canvas of her skin is a splatter of scars and bruises, of patches of grey, blighted skin. Her ribs protrude beneath her unbound breasts. She doesn’t look at him as she sheds the rest of her clothes and steps into the bath. Her knees are pulled to her chest and she lays her head against them, eyes closing as the steam rises around her.

His jaw clenches involuntarily and he swallows hard; it’s too much, too much. He leaves the room. Leaves the tavern and very nearly runs onto the street. The light of the day is almost gone as he walks the road. The trees have begun to change colour, their fallen leaves crunch beneath his feet. He makes it a fair distance from the tavern before the sorrow in his chest finally strangles his breath and his eyes spill cut glass against the light of the rising moon.

\- 

_Once upon a time there was a young man who travelled with his love. Their lives were not easy but they had each other and that made the days easier, and together they defeated everything that would try to tear them apart. Indeed so often they had won against such forces that when they finally failed it shattered the young man and his love, cut so deep the wounds continued to bleed for years afterward._

_It began, as so often things do, with hope._

_Hope that is buried with a Queen. Hope that is buried with a dream that never quite was._

_The Queen’s death is sudden, and no heir or successor is named. It is then that they come to him, the bastard prince who failed to take the throne years before. The young man is the rightful ruler they tell him. The kingdom needs him. He is of rightful blood they say._

_This time they say, there is no excuse to not take the throne. That if he does not take it the kingdom will be thrown into chaos._

_He does not believe them. Laughs even._

_But he is not as young as he had been the last time they tried to lay the crown upon his head. This time there is no blight. This time his blood does not sing with corruption. This time the threat to peace is more than just the actions of a few, more than darkspawn, and their words are persuasive._

_His love knows sacrifice. It is written in her blood; just as it had been written in his._

_The cure didn’t work for her. For her the music still plays._

_His love pushes him. Tells him to take the throne. And in the end he does._

_Here their roads diverge, lives torn apart by the tides of change._

-

When he returns to the room an hour later he finds her submerged, only her bent knees breach the water. The air is heavy and for a brief stuttered heartbeat he thinks maybe she has passed; her eyes: closed beneath still waters. 

He reaches toward her, the water cool against his skin. 

Within the space of a breath, before he can touch her, she grabs his wrist; eyes snapping open under the waters to stare into him, and she pulls him towards her as her head breaches the water with a gasping breath. He loses his balance and tumbles part way into the tub soaking his tunic and leathers, his cloak. She looks at him bewildered for a moment before she bursts out laughing.

It’s a noise he hasn’t heard in years, an infectious sound that shatters the previous silence of the room and as he pulls himself from the water, to kneel at the side of the tub, soaked clothes dripping heavy onto the floor he laughs too.

It’s a chisel that chips at the wall between them, splinters the stone. He echoes her smile as she grins at him and for a moment they are young again. And when she presses her lips to his he doesn’t back away. His eyes close, and in the minutes that pass before they open again he is twenty years younger. Twenty years younger and as in love with her as he had always been.

-

_Once upon a time there had been a young woman who travelled with her love. They weren’t always together, but she carried his heart - and so they were never truly apart. This young woman had triumphed over many things; she had won wars, battled demons. She had even fought death and nearly won._

_But death was a fierce general and with every battle she claimed victory, there were grave losses._

_For as the canticles teach:_

_All things in this world are finite._  
_What one man gains, another has lost._

_And in the end the battle was for naught. Death would always win the war._

_Death claimed its boon in the hollow of her womb; in the form of a crown laid upon her love’s golden head. In her blood that still sings a blighted melody._

_Somewhere along the road she had forgotten she’d fallen in love with a king. Forgotten that kings sit on gilded thrones not in the mud of the land, not in the dark roads hidden beneath the surface. Not the roads that she must travel. Her king asks her to stay at first, and at first she does. But the road calls, her blood calls, her duty calls._

_Her duty is not the same as his anymore._

_She travels away, days then weeks at a time. For a while she returns and her love, her king, waits for her, fills her room with roses when she returns at the dawning of the day. But still she leaves again and again, and soon the weeks turn into months, then a year._

_Then one day she leaves and she doesn’t return._

_Her king looks for her, she knows he does. But eventually he stops. Eventually he marries a woman who isn’t tainted by the same fate, the same duty as she._

_One day long after she hears the news: the king has an heir. The child she could never give him._

-

He sets his clothes by the fire to dry. Amell sits on the bed with a loaf of fresh bread from the kitchen, long wet hair in a loose braid that dampens the oversized linen shirt she wears. She has forgone trousers, her bare legs tucked beneath her. She rips into the bread; watching him unseeing as he finds a clean shirt in his pack. The firelight dances in her eyes, spreads over her features colouring her sallow skin warm.

He pulls a shirt from his bag and pulls it over tired muscle, muscle that has softened over the years with age and circumstance. The bed sags as he sits beside her. She gives him a chunk of the bread and they eat in silence. When she finishes she presses warm lips to his cheek and moves to the other side of the bed crawling between the sheets, her back towards him.

At day break they will travel from here, begin the days of travel that yet await them.

As he lays down he thinks about his family, wonders how they are; wonders if they will ever forgive him.

He falls into a restless sleep.

-

_His son sits on the great griffon statue that greets visitors to Redcliff. The one placed in honour of the Hero of Ferelden._

_The lad lounges against its great head, his right leg listlessly kicking at the air as he flips the pages of the book his nose is buried in. Alistair sighs loudly as he looks up at him, his own foot tapping anxiously against the cobblestones. He is more than aware of the small crowd that has begun to gather by a nearby shop, he can almost hear the whispering gossip._

_“Could you get down from there?” Alistair calls_

_His son places a finger against a page and looks down at him. “Father, according to this book the Hero of Ferelden fought an archdemon by becoming a dragon herself and biting off the creatures head. That sounds preposterous. People can’t turn into dragons, can they?”_

_He laughs softly. To be so young as to only read of such tales in books. To not witness the near end of the world many times over._

_“Would it surprise you to know that such magic does exist?” Alistair returns._

_His son’s eyes go wide and it warms his heart to see the wonder of youth has not yet dissolved with his fifteenth nameday._

_“But no, the Hero of Ferelden did not bite the head off of the Archdemon. She sunk a sword into it.”_

_The lad looks mildly disappointed by this new information._

_“But there was this one time she bit the head off deepstalker as a giant spider.” He continues, shuddering a little at the memory._

_The boy perks up at this “So she really could shapeshift?”_

_“Oh yes. I could tell you about the time someone mistook her for a stray… But you will need to come down from there.”_

_The boy slides off the side of the statue, landing easily. A movement that Alistair is sure would leave him with something broken if he were to try these days._

_His son grasps the book tightly in his hands. “What else could she do father? Uncle Teagan mentioned you fought with her during the blight. But you never speak of her.”_

_Alistair looks up at the cloudless sky and closes his eyes to the high sun, letting its warmth caress his skin. He could tell his son a million things: How her smile could light up a room, how her wrath could fell it. How her voice could rival any minstrel. How excited she would get about stories of griffons. How after all this time the wounds she left on his heart still threaten to bleed when he speaks of her. How she was the love of his life and he lost her. How the Queen: his son's mother, did not like to hear of the Warden who stopped the fifth blight._

_But he does not tell his son such things. Instead he takes a breath and smiles at the lad, wonders as he looks at him, where the time has gone. How fate could play out so much differently than he thought it would. Wonders what kind of King his son will be._

_A good one, he thinks._

_Alistair braces his heart “Walk with me back to the castle. You can ask me anything you want. But I make no promises as to what I will answer.”_

_His son’s brow furrows as he considers it over for a moment. Then he tucks the book under his arm as Alistair ponders where it came from. “Deal.”_

_As they make their way up the castle path, his son listens intently as he speaks; and Alistair surprisingly finds, there are few questions he does not answer._

-

A nightmare not his wakes him. Her soft cries of distress as she thrashes at the opposite edge of the bed. He remembers the nightmares. Remembers the stories of how they only got worse as the calling came. Her brow is knotted, eyes shut tight. He calls her name but she does not wake. He reaches over and soothes the knots from her brow with his thumb, combs his fingers through the hair by her temples the way he would a life time ago, when he was someone else.

She relaxes under the touch and he presses closer to her: holds her to his chest, feels her breath warm on his throat. It takes a long time after for him to fall asleep, but when he does it’s to the staccato of her heart and her steadying breath.

When he awakes again she is gone.


	2. Waltz for the Forgotten

Push yourself away from your one best friend.  
Who's going to love you when you reach the end?  
- _The Very Thing_ , Stars 

-

_The letter lays on his desk; a piece of unassuming correspondence that could be anything: an invite to another droll party, news from an Arling or Bann, the grocery list. It isn’t until he cuts open the seal and the dried dull petals of a rose fall from its pages does he know._

_His heart is a caged beast sharpening its claws against his ribs, old wounds re-opened and his breath catches in his throat as he reads the first lines…_

_"My Dearest Alistair,"_

_There is no formality of titles, the words lay bare before him. They are not words meant for the king, they are words meant for the man the king had once been. There are smudges in the ink, confessions crossed from the page leaving only a request and a place left between the lines. He tucks the letter into a pocket close to his heart and takes out a blank sheet of parchment. With careful precision he begins to write the first letters. A Letter to his son, away at the University of Orlais; who has grown into a fine man, but who may not yet know the power of a promise. A letter to his wife whom no matter how she tried, never could hold onto all of his heart. And a missive that would remove the crown from his head and pass it to his heir._

_The grief is thick behind his ribs as he writes, thoughts in tangles. Preparations needed to be made… and then…_

_This was a fool’s promise from a fool’s heart._

_What if she wasn’t even there when he arrived?_

_Her hair is spilt sunlight on the pillows. Like a coward he doesn’t say his goodbyes in the light of day, instead he kisses his wife’s hair and mumbles apologies to her in the shadow of night. He does not regret his life with her; she was a good queen and mother. He only regrets that he could not love her the way she deserved._

_He only regrets that she knew._

\- 

The room is vacant of any sign of her. Her pack, her books, her staff, everything is gone. He chastises himself for sleeping through her departure.

No one has seen her when he asks. She is simply gone.

He takes to the road after a meal and a bath, standing outside staring at the path ahead far longer than he ought. He could take it east, take it home, the people would ignore this transgression, as it is always easier to ignore such things. But he knows it is not the road she has travelled, and he has promised to share with her the road one last time. So he gathers his things and goes west, the cool morning breeze at his back.

He finds her at dusk.

“Go home Alistair.” She sits on a downed tree near the road, hands in her pack searching for something. She doesn’t even look up as he approaches.

“And miss out on your sunny disposition? Never.” He takes a seat beside her.

She finally looks his way. “Why are you here?”

“I seem to remember being invited. Something about darkspawn, something, something death, ominous letter really, but I thought: Alistair what a great opportunity to relive your glory days, wouldn’t it be swell. I mean no one has tried to kill you for years. What an opportunity indeed!”

She finally pulls what she was searching for from her pack: a bottle of conscription wine. “Well consider yourself uninvited.” She scowls before tipping the contents of the bottle into her mouth.

The silence between them thickens with the dusk. It’s the howl of wolves in the distance that finally breaks it.

“We should set up camp.” He sighs.

They find a clearing just off the road. They share a meal with few words, jerked meat and soft bread from the tavern.

The spill of night is broken by fireflies that dot the sky like stars; that dance around their camp and the burning coals of the fire.

She hums a song he hasn’t heard in years as she lays her bedroll on the grass. She moves slow, the aches of the years buried in over used muscle and bone, of cuts that had bled and healed and bled again.

When she stands she leans heavily on her staff. Her smile is marred with sorrow when he catches her gaze.

-

_The camp is quiet other than the bard who sings quietly into the crackle of the fire. The others have long been asleep when he approaches Leliana and Amell as they sit on watch. The nightmares had been too vivid this night and sleep eluded him in the aftermath, tangled threads of thoughts he could not hold. Amell smiles as he moves to warm himself by the fire. It is only as he draws closer that he realises Amell's voice joins Leliana’s in the song._

_The night is clear, the heavens laid open with starlight. He watches the fire, letting the warmth burn away the darkness, the nightmares. He listens as they sing an old song; a song about a brave knight and a fierce dragon, a song of a lost princess found._

_He is so focused on the torrent of the flame, of his thoughts that he starts when Amell is suddenly beside him, her palm laid open before him._

_“Dance with me?” She asks._

_Dancing? Templars weren’t generally invited to occasions that required dancing, nor were grey wardens to his knowledge. He doesn’t know how to dance. But her eyes dance in the fire light and even if he is certain this is an inevitable disaster, he can’t say no. So with a hard swallow he lets her drag him just outside the warmth of the fire to an area open enough to twirl._

_She is warm, her smile warmer as he settles a hand on her hip and she rests a hand on his shoulder, their opposite hands entwined. Leliana sings softly as they move in small circles around the clearing, and as he fears there are missteps and mishaps and it ends with them waking up half the camp in a fit of laughter._

_It becomes impromptu dancing lessons in the dim of night. Leliana taking his hand in patience as she teaches the steps proper. Ohgren laughs but joins in with an odd flailing of limbs, and Zevran, Zevran spins Amell around the camp in a way that spurs envy in Alistair’s heart._

_But when Amell grins at Alistair and trades Leliana’s hand for hers it all melts away…_

-

He holds out a hand gnarled by age and she looks at him questioning as she tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear.

“Dance with me?” He asks.

She lets her staff fall as she tucks her hand in his.

He knows how to dance now. Had been to more than he wished to count over the last many years.

“You’ve gotten better.” She remarks.

“Is this your way of apologizing?”

Her accompanying laugh is a melancholy sound. “I’m sorry.”

“I am too.” He tells her.

She lays her head against his shoulder as they move in slow circles around the dying embers. He doesn’t hear the thrumming in her veins, the song of the calling in her blood as she does, but he dances to the song she whispers with every breath, to the drumming of their hearts. The slow waltz of the forgotten and the never was.

-

_The babe in his arms doesn’t look right._

_Oh all ten fingers and toes are there, and there certainly aren’t tentacles or any other horror growing from the lad… but something just seems wrong. It’s in the shade of his eyes, in the curve of his nose, in the subtle features that tell him this child is from a woman not his love._

_Not that he doesn’t care for her. He does. But she is not his love._

_And he has not been a good husband. Has spent most of her pregnancy away from the castle, away from the thoughts that tormented every waking minute while there. Thoughts of loss and strangled hope, thoughts of betrayal. The thoughts that lurk in the deepest shadows of his heart, waking him in cold sweat._

_The child places a chubby hand against his father’s stubbled cheek and laughs, bright and unabashed. Alistair holds his small hand, lets him wrap tiny fingers around his thumb. He kisses the soft hair at his crown and whispers promises that had once, not long enough ago, been made to another._

-

She does not ask him to leave again in the days that follow and they fall into almost familiar dance. The choreography of the steps has changed over the years and occasionally they trip or collide but as the days pass the routine becomes easier.

One night she falls asleep with her head against his shoulder as they sit by the fire. A familiarity of days long past. And it’s almost too easy to fall in love with her again. A spark to oil, to ignite flames that could burn away the years apart. But flames cannot burn away everything and there are still dark coals that sit in their hearts, coals that will not be lost to the heat.

A ghost of a Rose still lays between them, wilted hope lost before it could see the sun.

Roses bloom in the castle gardens, planted in the first year by their hands. Even in winter their petals bleed red in the snow, Amell’s magic he knows. He caught a gardener trying to dig them out once, out of fear, but their roots are deep and a mother’s protection does not fade. One last gift for the Rose that did not bloom.

He stares at the flames, ashes scattering in the cool night breeze. The sky is clear; the stars: glittering diamonds against the darkness. He looks down at her sleeping form against his side. In sleep she looks softer even with the new scars that cut across her features. He wonders about the stories behind them, wonders if he had been there – would they be his scars to bear instead?

“Stop watching me sleep Alistair.” Her voice breaks against the night, and despite the blush crawling to his ears he is not so startled as to not respond.

“You were drooling.” He drawls, looking away.

She moves to sit up straight rolling her shoulders and neck, she yawns: “I was not.”

“Were.”

She arches an eyebrow at him but lets it drop. They sit in silence for a long time staring at the flames but when she moves to stand, he grabs her hand to stop her.

She meets his eyes in the fire light and he swallows hard, mouth dry: “We need to talk.”

-

_Her nails dig into the dirt, fingers scrapping against the soil until they bleed. Her face is smeared with mud and blood from where she constantly wipes at the tears escaping from her eyes. She hasn’t spoken to him in two days. She digs and plants, digs and plants; uses her magic to ensure the roses grow._

_He spares a glance at the bundle draped in white linen laying guarded by the mabari he has not seen move in hours, before he places the apple sapling he holds into the ground. He listens to the bird call that plays in the blue skies above where they work. The air is fragrant with the spring blossoms that colour the taller trees around the clearing._

_A day too beautiful to be shadowed by the sorrow that sits so heavily on their shoulders. The grief that has stolen their voices and broken their hearts. His jaw clenches and he swallows hard as the anguish threatens to swallow him, as the tears flow freely he buries the tree’s roots like he will soon bury his child’s ashes._

_The pyre that burns in that clearing during the twilight is small. Light nearly smothered by the nearby trees and only witnessed by three._

-

She blinks at him, brow furrowing, before sitting again at his side; “I shouldn’t have asked you to come.” She says.

“But you did.” He breathes deep and looks up at the stars, hazy through the smoke of the fire. “After all this time. Why now?”

“I’m scared Alistair.”

When he looks to her again she is staring at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. He has never heard her utter such words before. She was always the strong one, she was always the pillar of strength that others leaned on, that he leaned on. During the blight, the years afterward…

Her jaw clenches tight and her eyes pinch shut as if she fights against the traitorous words, against the wetness that glistens on her lashes. He reaches out and takes her chin gently between his fingers and tugs so she faces him. He slides his hand to cup her jaw, rubs a thumb along a scar that cuts across her cheek, brushing across the bridge of her nose and along the edge of her jaw. He cups her face in his hands and she meets his gaze.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go, was it love?” He sighs.

She lets out a stuttered breath “Has it ever?”

“Yes.”

He closes the distance between them, presses his mouth to hers. Her fingers find the nape of his neck, dig into his hair as she presses closer to deepen the kiss.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers when she suddenly breaks away.

She shakes her head “No… I…”

She stands and gathers her pack from nearby. She returns to his side and sits; digs through it until she extracts the object that she was looking for. It’s a small unassuming box worn with age but her knuckles are white as she holds it in her lap. She swallows and breathes in deep before removing the lid.

Even with only the pale firelight he can see clearly what lays inside…

Dried splintered rose petals dust the letters piled inside, he can see the script written by his own hand gracing the numerous pages and envelopes. His teeth clench against the tidal wave of emotion that threatens to swallow him, his heart hammers in his chest, fingernails digging into his palms; his sight wavers…

“You - ” He chokes on the words, the wave of anger and hurt tripping his tongue.

“Yes.” She stares at the box in her hands as if she wishes it would swallow her whole. He almost wishes it would.

He stands abruptly, towers over her: “All this time? You knew, I looked for you and YOU KNEW!” It’s a fire in his gut, churning flames in his throat.

Her voice is barely a whisper. “I thought you should know...”

He did know.

When the flames burn out. When only the coals remain he’ll let that truth wash over him with the smoke, but in the now there is only the fury and destruction of the wildfire, the knife between his ribs, and he leaves her to stare at the box that holds not letters, but the tattered ruins of a man.

He doesn’t hear the words she hurls into the space he no longer occupies, he doesn’t hear the wolf’s howl on the wind past the thundering in his ears. He walks until he can walk no more. Walks until he can no longer stand with the heaviness in his gut. Walks until he collapses in the embrace of a grand old oak’s gnarled roots. The cool Harvestmere air freezes the rivers trailing from his eyes, turns his breath to smoke: the doused fire in his chest. A thousand thoughts, a thousand words buzz in his head like angry bees until exhaustion finally takes him.

-

_The last time he sees her he kisses her hard; helps her onto her horse and closes a hand over hers as she holds the reigns. They stare at each other too long that last time, each silently studying the other’s face like a book, trying to read the words between the lines. But she is bound tight and her eyes are dull, the words there faded with time and sorrow. He tells her that he loves her, that he hopes that she will return soon. She only nods… and he knows, he knows it in the ache behind his ribs, in her silence… This is goodbye._

_He watches as she rides out of the castle gates. Watches the ghosts that trail behind her. Watches as she does not look back._

_He looks for her in the months and years that follow, letters sent to all corners of Thedas. He does not know if any reach her, none are ever returned, none are responded too. In the aftermath he is a porcelain doll shattered by a careless hand. Eventually Teagan convinces him to marry for the good of the crown, finds him a wife. In the aftermath Alistair lets others glue and mold him back together, form him into a proper king…_

_And a proper king he is for them._

_But he never forgets, and when the nights are long, the castle dark – sometimes, sometimes he writes her letters…_

-

She tosses the letters into the fire; watches the pages turn to ash and flutter like moths in the flame. She smothers a scream in her fist and fights the urge to run, run until her legs give out and her heart bursts in her chest not from despair but exertion. But Amell has already tried running, running only takes you in circles, only brings you back to the start. She knows this, has completed this gauntlet and does not have the time left to run it again. So instead she waits. She can wait just a little longer to see how this story plays out, she can see the end now, there are only a few more pages left…

-

_The evening breeze tussles her hair as Amell stands on the battlements staring out at the mountain range, the stone wall digging into her forearms where she leans against it to take in the setting sun. At her feet a young mabari leans against her legs. The hound stands as Cullen approaches, its twin following in the Commander’s wake._

_“Beautiful isn’t it?” Cullen murmurs._

_The hounds greet each other noisily and bound off down the battlements. She spares a glance at Cullen as he settles beside her on the wall. His hair has begun to curl at the ends, the telling sign of a rough day._

_“It is.” She replies._

_She catches the slight downturn of his lips in her peripheral view._

_“A letter came for you today.” He tells her. “From the King of Ferelden.”_

_“Let me guess, you have said letter for me?”_

_“I do.” He sighs deep as he hands her the parchment. “I know we’ve discussed this before – but I still believe you should write him back. Let him know you are, alright.”_

_She turns to Cullen, flipping the letter between her hands as she leans a hip against the stone. “Concern noted.” She remarks as she tucks the letter into her robes._

_“…But ignored.” He grumbles._

_“The Inquisitor should be returning soon.” Amell says, and smiles when he takes the bait and lets her change the subject._

_“Two days time.” He responds._

_“You must be happy.”_

_“I’ll be happier when she is safe at Skyhold.” He sounds tired._

_Amell straightens and stretches lazily. “Rough day?”  
_

_“That would be an understatement.”_

_She places a hand lightly on his arm “Come. Let’s get a drink. I think we could both use one.”_

_He nods and follows into step as she walks towards the tavern. In the courtyard below she can see the hounds chase each other playfully._

_There is a peace here that she’ll miss when it’s time to leave, and that time she is sure will be sooner than later. Though she does not yet know the request the Inquisitor will make of her upon her return. Does not yet know the road she will travel from here: the road that will take her even farther from her King – she can sense that the path is turning, that it will be a long time before she sees her King again._

_If she does see him again. She does not need to read the parchment tucked into her robes to feel the heavy weight of the words._

_So for now she will let the liquor burn away the noise in her veins, burn away the grief she does not show, burn away what is left of her heart. And then she will build walls, stronger walls, and she will keep going._

_Until she can’t._

-

When Alistair comes back to himself, he is sure there is frost coating the stubble on his cheeks, frost that has frozen his eyes shut, frost that cuts cold when he rubs it from his lashes. The snow will come early in Ferelden this year if the chill in the air is something to go by. He's sore, the cold soaked into his bones. He takes a moment to take in his surroundings to remember why he lays against a tree in the cold rather than between soft sheets and it comes back to him in crashing waves.

Saying their talk had not gone well felt like an understatement. He rises from the ground and pulls his thick cloak closer, shivering. He is cold and miserable and… and tired. So much more tired than he’d usually admit. He makes his way back to camp, the twilight is still thick and the darkness makes the walk treacherous. His relief at seeing the fire glow warm against the night is nearly palpable.

He finds himself both surprised and relieved to see her still sitting by the fire, leaning against a fallen tree trunk, her face illuminated by the flames. She turns her head as he approaches.

“I was beginning to become concerned. It’s cold out here.” Her voice is soft when she speaks.

He moves closer to the fire, the flames a welcome relief; “You’re telling me.”

He catches the quick turn of her lips as he settles on the ground beside her. They sit in silence for a long while. Alistair shuffles before the flames trying to get warm and when she presses in close and wraps her arms around him he doesn’t protest.

He can smell the smoke that clings to her hair as she tucks her head beneath his arm to lay her head against his chest. She is warm against the cold that clings to him. The warmth is inviting and in the silence he nearly slumbers. It’s her voice, soft against the crackling flames that rouses his attention.

“I feel like a lifetime of apologies will never be sufficient.” 

“Good thing neither of us have a lifetime left to worry about it.” He mutters sleepily, running fingers through her hair. 

She laughs quietly and nods her assent.

He is tired, so tired and it’s not the exhaustion from losing sleep, it’s the bone weary exhaustion, the exhaustion the runs deep, that sharpens its claws on his ribs and he aches. When his eyes close again they close on the past, close on the things he cannot change, and when they open, they open on the present, on the road ahead that only has a few more steps left to travel.


	3. Where Roses Grow

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.  
_Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,_ Robert Frost 

-

_Amell holds onto Alistair’s arm, magic and blood seeping between her fingers as she works to close the wound that exposes the bones of his forearm. The Hurlock that caused the damage lays dead at their feet, along with half a dozen other darkspawn._

_“Cutting it a little close were we?”_

_The pain supresses his grin, contorting it into a grimace. “Just keeping you sharp, love.”_

_She smiles and presses a kiss against his chin “Sharp like a hurlock blade nearly severing your sword arm?”_

_His arm burns in agony beneath her touch as he holds still so she can work. He clenches his jaw to the pain as it smothers his witty come back. She whispers litanies as she works, and within a few moments the wound is closed enough for the blood to begin to clot, but his arm will be near useless for days._

_She wraps the injury well and looks up at him. “No heroics, healer’s orders. Not until we’re sure the bone has set proper and the wound won’t open again.”_

_“Well, I suppose then that you will be pleased to know there is an inn not far from here.”_

_She presses closer to him “An inn you say? I hear they sometimes have warm beds and baths.”_

_He wraps his good arm around her waist and she returns the embrace “I have heard such things as well. I don’t suppose, fair Lady, that you would accompany me so that I may somehow return your kindness?”_

_“Are you trying to seduce me good sir?” She presses her lips against the hollow of his throat and for a moment all coherent thought is lost somewhere between the ache of his arm and the ache in his belly._

_“Is it working?” He stutters._

_She smiles against his neck “You had me at **inn** .” _

-

“I want to go.” Amell adjusts her pack as she walks beside him. He can’t see her face hidden beneath her fur lined cloak. The morning chill nips at his cheeks, puffs of breath clouding his vision.

“Good.” Alistair replies.

“But are you sure? It’ll add weeks to our travel, not to mention the proximity to Denerim…” She trails off.

He grabs her arm, stops her mid stride in the middle of the road as he pulls her to face him. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t sure.”

She sucks in a breath, searches his eyes with hers for a moment before acquiescing. “Okay, let’s go.”

The road south is cold, the nights colder. But the path is easier to walk than either had thought it to be and when the grand trees of the old forest come into view it feels like coming home.

 

The apple tree is nearly bare, the last orange and yellow leaves clinging precariously to branches that rustle in the cool afternoon breeze, fallen apples laying at its base. The tree itself is unassuming among the others here, but only this one sits in a clearing with a circle of rose bushes around it, bare thorned branches that reach out in wild brambles towards the centre of the circle. The dried petals and leaves crunch beneath their feet as they approach.

Amell slides between an opening in the roses, brushing her hands over them as she passes. Alistair watches as they turn green again beneath her fingers, leaves unfurling beneath her touch. Roses budding and opening toward her as if she were the sun itself. The magic does not spread far and as she moves towards the tree the new leaves begin to wither with her passing. He picks one of the roses as he follows behind her, the petals blood red against the dark leather of his gloves. By the time he has passed through the branches are bare again, more dry petals and leaves to gather at their base.

Amell kneels before the tree and he settles beside her on the cold ground, lays the flower at its base. They listen to the dirge the wind sings as it rustles through the woods, pulling and twisting the leaves that fall around them.

“It’s strange to think this tree was no more than a sapling the last time I was here.” Alistair says as he look up at the canopy of branches that shade them.

She glances at him, “It has been a long time.”

“Too long.” He moves a tentative hand to close around hers, swallows hard when he feels her fingers press against his.

Her voice is soft: “I wondered for a long time if this was the Maker’s wrath being cast upon me… for the choices I made… the blood on my hands. Was this my judgement?”

His eyes close briefly, her words too close to thoughts he once unfairly held. He had once accused her in anger of walking a dark path. But in the end he had still chosen to walk the path with her, still followed the road until the road was no longer there for him to walk. He has no words of comfort for her, no words of comfort for himself and so they sit in silence.

With a heavy heart he remembers a small babe with Amell’s eyes. Taken before she had a chance to bloom by a sickness that nearly stole her mother’s life as well.

A sickness that brought the song back into her veins instead; corruption that could not be muted. 

Amell releases his hand and presses her’s into the dirt, fingers clenching, cutting rows into dry soil. There are tears streaming down her face and he knows by the salty taste on his lips that they mirror on his. The sun filters bright through the branches, speckled shafts of light across the clearing of their daughter’s grave.

Amell only remembers those she's lost, tends to forget about the many she has saved.

Alistair doesn’t forget. He remembers them all. Remembers every moment that someone she saved looked upon her with reverence. Each time his heart swelled with pride and he fell just a little more in love with her. 

But sometimes love just isn’t enough, and pride has fallen many heroes.

Sometimes the person the hero fails to save is themselves.

“The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next…” The words start quiet on his breath “For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”

“As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light.” Amell whispers. “The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death,”

He removes his glove and twines his fingers with hers in the dirt, dark trails of soil across their skin.

“For the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.” They quietly finish together.

Her voice is gravel when she speaks again: “Thank you for coming with me.”

He knows she does not only speak of this place and his voice fairs no better, breaking on the words. “You only needed to ask.” He loosens his fingers from hers, wraps his arm around her and kisses her temple. “Until the end, remember?”

-

_Her feet pad lightly on the soft moss of the forest floor. She has heard a noise in the trees ahead, a deer she hopes as she presses her body low. She pushes her nose through the rose bushes that circle the clearing where she’s heard the sound. The thorns scrape against her fur, scratch at her ears as she takes in the creature that stumbles to the ground before her. It is not the deer she’d hoped for and her teeth are sharp and her stomach hungry as she watches the man in leathers far too nice for a mere bandit fall to his knees before the apple tree. She can’t see his face from her cover and she pulls herself slowly back. She is circling the underbrush when the man speaks. His voice is slurred but unmistakeable._

_She stops cold, fur bristling._

_“Happy name day sweetheart.”_

_Her ears twitch and she pads closer, she can smell ale on the breeze as she moves downwind._

_“I’m sorry It's been so long.”_

_She finds another break in the roses, pushes her snout through, biting back a sneeze as a leaf tickles her nose. She watches as he rubs the heel of his hand into his eye._

_“I don’t suppose you’ve seen your mother? I – I've lost her too.”_

_He pulls a cask from his coat and drinks from it deeply. Her heart beats heavy against her ribs, from here she can make out the line of his nose, the heavy scruff of an unkempt beard as he tips his head back to finish the contents of his cask. She wonders how many years it’s been now. She’s used this form to long she thinks. Too long. She use to remember –_

_A branch snaps: breaking against the quiet of the clearing, something heavy moves towards them. Before the man has time to reach for the sword at his side she has already leapt from the bushes, nearly knocking him over as she moves to stand between him and the beast that crashes through the roses towards him. She growls low as the great bear rears back and a massive paw of sharp claws clears the air where she’d just stood. She sees the man stand back, sword at the ready as she circles the bear._

_The bear focuses its attention on her just as she’d hoped, eyes watching her warily. She lunges at the beast, tears at the fur at its neck with her wolf teeth. The beast roars in pain, swats at her and again misses when she jumps away all four feet landing a safe distance away. Their paws kick up the moss and dirt and grass in their dance of dominance; their battle of gnashing teeth and claws. The bear nearly pins her once, twice. A sharp cut bleeds along her back leg and across her snout and it only makes her more frenzied. The human seems to have sobered somewhat when she notices him again. He holds his weapon more firmly, studies their movements more carefully and she uses it to her advantage when she turns the bear’s flank to him._

_The creature howls in pain as the man slides his blade into the creature’s side. It slides deep and the blade is dark and glistening when it slides back out as the bear turns. The bear lumbers towards the man and she lunges at the beast again, tears her teeth into its hind leg as the man’s blade swings wide._

_There is a thick, heavy sound as the bear collapses, the blade in its throat. She is panting hard when she releases the kill. The man looks at her warily as he removes his blade from the bear’s flesh and she growls low and warning, fur bristling._

_He holds up a hand, palm toward her as he backs away slowly. “Bears and wolves… I didn’t realize it was a Tuesday.”_

_She cocks her head and he laughs low as he wipes the gore from his blade. “Fitting though, today of all days.” He sheathes his sword and walks back to the base of apple tree._

_Her nose hurts. Her leg hurts. She hurts… and she’s hungry. She limps towards the kill and begins to tear at the flesh pulling chunks of meat from the bone and settles in the dirt with her prize between her paws. She pretends to ignore the man while she eats, but she is still wary, the forest is not kind to those who are not._

_She listens as the man recites versus and speaks softly into the breeze that tickles her ears and ruffles her fur; the afternoon sun that filters through the tree tops is warm on her back. The forest feels calm again when she eventually, gingerly, stands. The man watches her as she limps toward the break in the bushes the bear’s rampage has left. He doesn’t speak and neither does she._

_She makes her way to a wide stream that cuts through the trees a fair distance away from the clearing. The water is cool on her tongue and the water runs with trails of red from the blood on her mouth. She walks tentatively into the water, the stream licks at her underbelly; soaks into her fur as the gentle waters clean the blood and grime from her. The sun hits the water at an angle that lets her catch her reflection, large feral eyes look back at her and she finds she doesn’t recognize them. Her body shifts in the water, fur receding and limbs elongating; her claws dull and push back onto fingers, her skin pebbles against the cold waters that lick against her arms and legs. The reflection in the water still doesn’t look right. Her hair is matted and tangled, a large cut left from the bear brushes across her nose and cheek to taper along her jaw. She follows the gash with tentative fingers, her eyes still look too feral. Wrong._

_But people aren’t meant to hold animal forms for as long as she has, for the seasons she has. Perhaps that was a reason shape shifting magic was a banned art in the circle. She settles on her knees in the water, lets the water lap around her waist. She examines the wound on her leg, the patch of blighted skin that has begun to spread along the inside of her thigh. There’s a song playing in her blood, a song that plays too loud in this form. The wolf is easier to handle, easier to be – than this._

_She shakes her head and sinks healing magic into her leg, watches in her mind’s eye as the ribbons of flesh knit. There is an angry red line from her ankle to thigh when she is done. The mark across her face proves more difficult to close and in the end she is content enough with the wound clotted. She lays down in the water staring up at the cloudless sky that distorts as the water rolls over her lashes and into her eyes. Her tattered tunic pulls across her belly and laps against her thighs with the current._

_She lets the water take the grime from her hair, the blood from her lips, the ache from her limbs. But the water doesn’t take away the song in her veins, the ache behind her ribs. The man in the clearing had been a ghost too real. Her palms press into her eyes to take the image away, she doesn’t want to see her past and she has no future, the wolf has the present, the wolf has the hunt, the wolf isn’t tied to man’s politics and borders: The wolf is free._

_When she emerges from the waters the air has grown muggy with the smell of rain to come. She walks on two legs back to the clearing. A raven pecks at the bear carcass but all that remains of the man is two roses, laying side-by-side at the base of the apple tree._

_-_

They camp by a nearby stream, a rabbit over the fire and wine in their bellies as they sit together. Snow is falling, gentle flakes that melt on their cloaks and in their hair; the kind of snow that will disappear with the new day’s sun.

“I have something for you.”

Amell looks at Alistair “Oh?”

He reaches a hand into the neck of his tunic and pulls out something attached to a chain around his neck. He unclasps the chain and places it in her outstretched hand.

The metal is warm from being close to his skin, she runs a thumb along the filigree on the edges, touches the griffon engraved in the center of the locket with a tentative finger.

“What is it?” She asks, brow furrowed.

“Open it.” He moves in closer as she pries it open with cold fingers.

There is nothing inside.

“I don’t understand.”

He takes her hand and holds it up to the firelight at an angle. It gleams against the dark, something dark and fluid coats the inside of the locket, something that begins to pulse with its own light as they hold it.

“Is that…” Her voice trembles and she snatches her hand back toward her chest, holding the locket close. Her eyes are wet and feral when she turns on him “How could you!?” She seethes through clenched teeth.

“Neither of us are innocent, I don’t think either of us ever were.” He stares into the fire, pokes at the coals with a long branch. “It was found at the castle. I’m not sure how or why it ended up there… But it was. Along with some others.”

Her hand still clenches the locket close to her chest. “Where is the rest of it?” She growls.

“I destroyed it. Along with the rest that were there. Phylacteries have little use anymore.”

She swallows hard, her eyes pinched shut. “Why would you keep this?” _Her blood, her blood bound by magic to the chantry and the circle and those that would have hunted her without mercy long ago, before the world changed._

His words are knives in the darkness: “Because it was all I had left.”

The initial silence that follows is pressing. The scent of the smoke and the burning flesh on the spit. The wetness that falls on her face as she looks up at the low hanging clouds. The ridiculousness of it all.

“Well, Shit.” The venom has faded from her voice. The laughter that replaces it is an exasperated sound as she places the chain around her neck and tucks the locket into her robes.

She smirks at him “What do you know. Morrigan was right. We really are a couple of idiots.”

His sudden laughter seems to shake the very ground, when he finishes there are tears in his eyes and he wraps an arm around her shoulders pulling her close. He presses his face into her hair. 

“Yes. Yes we are.” He sighs.


	4. Soft Offering for the Oft Suffering

There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave  
You were what I wanted  
I gave what I gave  
_Your ex-lover is dead,_ Stars

-

_The summer heat is stifling, sweat clings to her skin, soaks her thin dress through and plasters her hair in heavy ringlets against her back. The evening sun is hazy in the fragrant air: heavy with sweat and spices and fish from the markets from the nearby docks; the muffled sounds of shop keepers haggling their wares reaching her ears as she watches the evening orange light reflect off the water and the city below._

_“So you’ve written him then, yes?” Zevran’s voice is quiet as he slides in beside her on the balcony, his bare arm presses warm against hers on the stone barrier that separates them from the waters below._

_“Yes.”_

_“Do you think he will come?” He asks._

_“Do you?” Amell retorts._

_Zevran looks thoughtful for a moment. “Yes.”_

_“Then you have more faith in him than I do.” She sighs._

_He slides his fingers between hers, his palm warm and slick from the heat against her own. “You’re still certain you do not wish for me to join you?”_

_She leans her head against his shoulder “You know the answer to that already.”_

_He leans his head against hers, the smell of oil and leather fills her senses and her eyes close for a few breaths._

_“I do. But that does not mean I like it.”_

_She straightens and reaches out to cup his jaw in her hand, to run her fingers lazily along the tattoo on his face, the crow’s feet that crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he smiles at her. His fingers close around hers and he brings them to his lips. His mouth is warm and soft against her skin._

_“But I know. I am far too dashing and handsome for you to just throw at the darkspawn.” He sighs dramatically, his breath pebbling her skin. “Beauty and charm such as mine must be preserved at all costs. Yes?”_

_She uses little strength to pull him closer as he moves towards her willingly. She lets her lips brush against his, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Perhaps. Or Perhaps, I just need you to take care of Griffon.”_

_The old mabari, at the sound of his name lifts his large head from the floor not far from where they stand to look at the two them. Then the hound deciding it is too hot and that he is not needed, lays back down on his side with a grunt, tongue lolling against the cooler stone at their feet._

_She pulls away from Zevran to look back over the city._

_“Surely you jest. He will be as willing to stay behind as I!”_

_“I wasn’t planning to give you the choice.” She says into the heavy evening air._

_His hands find her hips and he twirls her on the spot to face him again. His honey coloured eyes searching hers. “You’re leaving tonight.” It isn’t a question. “You would go shapeshifting off into the night? Leave without even a goodbye?” The thread of anger in his voice isn’t entirely unexpected._

_Amell places her hands gently over his at her hips, holds them as she takes a heavy breath and steps back. “Look at me Zev, really look at me.”_

_It has been said love is blind, but it not so much blind as it softens the hard edges, makes it so that when only one really looks close can the truth be seen. And he doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want to acknowledge the patches of blighted skin that marks her flesh, the dark circles under her eyes, the sharp outline of her ribs and hips through the thin linen of her dress. Her hair that threatens to fall in clumps, thinning more every day. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that she is dying and he cannot stop it. He who had once been a master at death, only to find that even a master cannot control it._

_She makes a dramatic sweep of the room, gestures towards the nearby writing desk covered in papers and bottles. “I can’t keep drinking trying to keep the – the song at bay.” She scratches at her arms, drawing angry red welts across the patchwork of scars there. “I’m wasting away. Sometimes when I awaken from the nightmares… I can’t remember – I don’t know who you are, who I am. I should have – I should have gone to my calling years ago. You know this.” Her eyes are wet, diamonds glistening against the falling sunlight “But I’ve been selfish and I…”_

_“I’m scared.”_

_He pulls her to him, wraps her in a tight embrace. She swallows down a sob as she presses back against him, presses her face into the crook of his neck, letting the familiar scent of him calm her heart and her breath._

_The shadows of the room grow as the sun departs for the day and still he holds her close, runs a hand gently over her hair. “Let us see you off tonight if you are to go. But do not just leave without a goodbye.”_

_Her finger twirls around a strand of his hair that has fallen loose of the long braid he wears. She nods once against his neck before pulling back, and if her face is damp when she does, she’ll blame it on the humidity._

_He smiles to hide the moisture in his own eyes, and moves a stray strand of hair away from her face before kissing her brow. “Come, I will help you with your things.”_

-

She wakes with her arm draped over Alistair’s waist, her cheek pressed against his back. She breathes in slow and heavy. The air smells wrong, it’s too cold and it leaves frost in her muscles, makes it slow to sit up. There are remnants of a dream humming through her thoughts, ghostly fingers in her skull. She stares into darkness so thick she cannot tell if her eyes are open or closed.

“Bad Dream?”

The tent alights with wild magic, veil fire that burns her eyes and the darkness, blinding her. There is a buzzing in her skull, fire in her veins, a scream caught in her throat. 

Fingers close around her wrist, pulling her, pulling, pressing, it hurts, everything hurts, heart beating fast against the cage of her ribs.

Then she hears her name.

Slow and steady, repeated over and over. That voice, she knows that voice, why does she know that voice?

The light subsides and her eyes adjust enough to see the hand and the arm, the person the fingers are attached to.

She wretches her arm away, pinches her eyes shut behind the heels of her hands. _“Stop haunting me.”_ She chokes out.

There’s a heavy sigh and a muffled thump as the light fades back into darkness. Her palms are wet when she pulls them from her eyes. It’s slow to come back to her, an old painting damaged by time and weather, she can almost make out the picture –

“Where is the wine?” She spits out. Her head is a static cage, shocks of pain and pressure building inside her skull.

“In your pack I’m sure.”

She searches blindly for a moment, ignorant of the sounds around her until the cool base of the bottle hits her bare knee.

“Here.”

She reaches for the bottle, her fingers brushing against his, cold in the dark. She doesn’t fumble for long to get bottle open and the contents down her throat. The burn of the liquor muffling the pain in her skull.

“How long?” His voice is accusing, bitter.

“What?”

“How long have you been hearing the calling? I know how it felt when Corypheus initiated the false one. But that was a false one. You – You’ve been hearing it a while now haven’t you?” His voice softens on the last few words.

She swallows down another gulp-full before answering, quiet and ashamed “Almost six years.”

She can hear him move, tentative fingers land feather light on her knee. “How have you even lasted this long? Why would you wait this long?”

“I told you. I was scared.” She lets the liquid continue to burn down her throat, to blur the pain and the song, her vision begins to swim against the shadows.

His voice is quiet, as feather light as the fingers on her knee. “I don’t believe that.”

She doesn’t know if it’s the liquor or the buzzing in her skull, or the fact there is just no more time left to waste on such things, but her tongue answers before her head. “I didn’t want to take you away from your family.”

She can picture his brow furrowing in the dark “But you didn’t.”

“I know and I am sorry.” She sighs not hearing his words, her voice going quiet. “It was selfish and if you want to leave you can, I won’t hold it against you. In truth, I didn’t think you would come.”

“You said that.” Fingers wrap around her wrist stopping her hand on the bottle, stopping her from finishing the contents. “But a promise is a promise. Even the ones made a lifetime ago.”

She lowers the bottle to sit between her hands in her lap and she twirls it idly as he moves closer to her in the dark, as his knee brushes against hers. A hand comes up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushes over her cheek and through the moisture there, the spilt truth from her eyes that he cannot see, only feel.

“I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you.” His voice is strained and her own raw throat tightens at the sound. “But you are not only the most stubborn woman I know, you also don’t listen.”

“I said you didn’t take me from my family. Well you did. But you also brought me back to my family.”

She closes her eyes to the dampness building there, the lump building in her throat.

He continues: “You were my family the day you became a warden. You were my family when I had no other.” His hand slips to the nape of her neck. “You were my family when I did. And anywhere I would have followed you.”

He sighs heavily as his forehead presses into hers. The moon breaks through the clouds outside the tent, soft grey light falling over the occupants, illuminating them from the shadows. “But you didn’t give me the chance.”

“You left.” This close she can feel the tremor of the words run along his throat, his fingers that briefly tense against the back of her neck. She finds she can’t speak past the lump in her throat, can barely breathe.

“I may not have liked your choice, but it was your choice.” He sighs.

She clenches her teeth against the torrent, but she is nothing but a ship in the storm and the waves are not merciful when they come. She is drowning, tumbling, drifting and she is gasping, trying to breathe. A sea is rolling from her eyes, branching into rivers along the scarred plains of her face, waterfalls pooling on her hands, on her knees and the bedding beneath them. She can taste salt on her lips.

“Just as this is my choice.” His voice cracks, strains against the fissures. “I am an old man because of you. The only reason I even have the chance to live longer is because of you.” His jaw clenches for a breath. “The family you speak of will understand that. They will understand the honour of a promise. And I would not be a good King if I could not hold to that honour.”

She raises a hand to lay it against his cheek, brushes a thumb over the dampness collecting there; lets her fingers trail along his jaw, his chin, his nose and his lips. She brushes her other hand through his hair, feels the texture between her fingers. She cups his face between her hands and looks at him as though she’s seeing him for the first time.

“Say something.” He huffs, his breath warm against her skin.

She smiles and presses her lips to his brow, a quiet whisper into his skin past the stone sitting heavy in her throat. “Until the end.”


	5. The Road Ends

And as the world comes to an end  
I'll be here to hold your hand  
_King and Lionheart,_ Of Monsters and Men

-

_The hold rises before her, a path cuts along the rocky terrain, simple wood planked homes nestled in along the rocky outcropping, wind whipped and sprayed by the churning waters that cut their song into the rock. There is a flutter in her belly, a seed of hope growing in her chest, curling around her heart as she makes the last push toward the Avvar village. A couple of their warriors greet her at the base of the path, their words are short but they serve to buoy the growing hope, to let it lift the corners of her mouth and alight her eyes with it._

_Up the path, near the grand hall; she will find him there. And she does._

_Her fingers dig into the straps of her pack, her feet digging into the steep path, well-worn from years of use. She sees him first. The Avvar people rise tall over him, strong like the great trees with roots as long. He speaks with a woman whose sunlit locks tousle with the strong breeze that whips her own hair against her lips and eyes. His back is to Amell’s approach. A great bear stands at his side, though he doesn’t seem concerned by the fact it is pressing its muzzle into his hand like a hound wishing for a pat._

_It is an almost comical sight to see both him and the bear turn their heads toward her at her approach. The smile he gives her nearly knocks the breath from her lungs it has been too long, too long and the urge to run into his waiting arms almost too much to bear. She drops her pack at her feet when she reaches him, lets his warmth envelop her, shield her from the wind as his arms tighten around her._

_When he releases her she can see the woman beside them is smiling. “You must be the one they call the Hero of Ferelden. I have heard much about your feats lowlander.” She says in greeting._

_Alistair looks pointedly out towards the waters that spread well beyond the hold. The high sun colouring his hair golden._

_“I am.” Amell responds meeting the woman’s gaze._

_“I am Svarah Sun-Hair, Thane of Stone-Bear Hold. You are welcome here lowlander.” The Thane’s voice holds the strength and conviction of the very mountain._

_“I am grateful.”_

_The great bear makes a noise as if insulted by her current lack of introduction, the noise startles Amell. She has seen a great many things but a bear of such magnificence and stoicism has not previously been one of them._

_Svarah Sun-Hair speaks: “This is Storvacker, hold-beast of Stone-Bear Hold.”_

_“Isn’t she pretty?” Alistair pipes up._

_Amell nods towards the great-bear “Indeed. A pleasure Storvacker.”_

_Storvacker cocks her great head, meeting Amell’s gaze with great intelligence and Amell wonders briefly at the significance such a creature means to the hold._

_Over the next few weeks she will learn more than most about the Avvar and their customs. When Alistair had asked her to meet him here, she had not understood. The Frostbacks tend to be inhospitable to most and neither the mountains nor the people are often spoken of as kind. But she will see the way they flow like water against stone, their patience and their perpetuity in a place where nothing is permanent. She sees in time the indomitable spirits that guide them. The reasons Alistair had her come here._

_One night during a great feast for a hunt gone well, her belly warm with ale, warm summer air drifting through the open door and windows of the great hall, Alistair poses her a question she does not know how to answer._

_His hand is warm on hers as they sit at one of the long tables. The din of the hold is jovial, loud, and she nearly doesn't hear his words. But when they register themselves past the ale and the noise; they claw into her heart, words that shouldn’t be sharp, dig themselves in and hold. Four little words: Will you marry me?_

_Little girls and boys growing up in the circle learn quickly that marriage and love are things of fantasy. Love can only breed pain and suffering, it is far better to wall one’s heart like the stone that walls them. Love and marriage is for other people, people who do not possess the curse of magic._

_But her magic was never a curse._

_And love is not a fantasy. Love is a coursing river, and sometimes it moves too fast or too slow and sometimes there are rocks in the water, and sometimes the waters are shallow; sometimes they are deep. And sometimes it is easy to be swept away by it, to let it swallow you whole, to let it drown you. And sometimes you are thrown to the shore and you are left listless and wanting as your heart dries out._

_And because she does not know how to answer, she kisses him. Hard. Which rewards them with a few hoot and hollers from those nearby. When she pulls back from him, his amber eyes are clear and waiting. She takes his hand and holds it to her lips, a soft kiss against his knuckles._

_“I - ” She begins, but in the years after the blight he has learned her heart well and when he leans in to whisper in her ear, she breaths him in: metal and leather and ale on his breath - warm breath that tickles her neck._

_“Come outside with me.” He says._

_She follows him outside. The smell of smoking meat is strong in the air, the jovialness of the hall carrying on the evening breeze. They walk hand in hand along the village path leading further up the mountain until they find a spot to rest that looks out over the great mountain lake that butts up against the village. The dark waters reflecting the late evening sky. Stars that speckle the waters like jewels. Under the din of the village she can hear the night song of insects in the grass._

_He stands before her, her right hand cradled in both of his. He rubs his thumbs along her palm for a few breaths not meeting her eyes before he finally breaks the silence growing between them with a sigh._

_“I love you, you know that right?”_

_She nods in assent, trying to catch his gaze but he just continues to stare at their entwined hands._

_Alistair continues: “I want to be with you, whatever that brings. More darkspawn probably… and maybe we won’t have long till the calling finally takes us, but I want to be with you, until the end.” He finally looks up at her as she closes her fingers around his._

_Her teeth worry her bottom lip as she meets his gaze, unable to breathe against the collapsing walls around her heart. Walls that had grown thin and weak long before she even realized. She sucks in a stuttered breath before she speaks, soft and low: “I remember many years ago making a promise to accompany you to the deep roads should you hear your calling first.”_

_He takes a step closer “I remember making such as promise as well.”_

_She tries to swallow down the lump forming in her throat, but she fails and the words break against it, and their edges cut against her eyes: tears that threaten to fall. Her boots kick against his as she attempts to step closer, their hands still entwined, sit between their hearts. His forehead brushes against hers._

_She closes her eyes and smiles. “I – I. Yes.” She finally manages “Until the end. Whatever that may be.”_

_A roaring celebratory shout comes with the breeze that tussles their hair and Alistair lets out a breathy laugh before pressing his lips to hers. Her heart is griffon wings beating against the cage of her ribs, as she whispers against his mouth: “I love you.”_

_He smiles against her lips, rolls the words along his tongue and onto hers:_

_“Until the end.”_

_The road is clear in this moment, but the evening is still dark and they cannot see what the morning sun will bring. They cannot see that soon the road will divide and so shall they. The morning sun brings a word of summons, and a word of a cure. It also brings word of trouble on the horizon, trouble that will cut the very sky open._

_But she holds his heart, and he hers and they know their duty. The duty of a Grey Warden._

_And the word of a cure…_

_It could mean the end of such duty, it could mean forever and “Until the end” could mean old age instead of battle and it is too much to hope, but they do._

_They leave the Avvar village together but by the time the frostbacks are behind her, so is he._

_-_

All roads end, all stories come to a close.

This one ends in the dark far beneath the surface. It ends with the clash of metal and a cutting scream against the stone. It ends with fading stuttered breath, blood thick on the tongue. It ends like a dying campfire: the fading pulsing light. 

It ends in tears.

Orzammar is just waking up when they arrive. The quiet bustle of the merchants setting out their wares greets them when they enter the city. They share a quiet meal at the tavern. Amell leaves twice the amount of sovereigns that the meal cost. 

It does not take long to make their way to the deep roads entrance. The guards let them by with little aggravation. They are not there to stop the foolhardy from entering, they are there to keep the terrors that lurk within from leaving.

The abandoned stone sings with echoing shrieks in the dark. The sharp scent of rot and strangled air heavy on the tongue. Amell closes her fingers around Alistair’s as they walk forward hand in hand. The staff on her back: the heavy weight of the pendulum. The staccato of her heart grows louder as the road grows darker.

She pulls veil fire to her fingers to light the passages, the eerie light throws shadows to lead the way. It does not take long to find the first of the creatures that make the deep roads their home. They cut through the deepstalkers with their grey skin and needle teeth, the spiders as large as horses, the first of the darkspawn. The tainted creatures that linger in the dark, the ones for which the symphony still plays, the ones for whom the serenade of the blood beneath their skin has yet to end.

Just like hers.

And it’s on the third day, far into the dark labyrinth of the deep roads that she falls.

Blood seeps through her fingers and pools beneath her nails, there is magic in blood and she can feel it as it spills to the stone, as it soaks through her leathers and spreads from the sword that has slid in below her ribs. The Hurlock is left without a head in the moments after; as her staff echoes against the walls as it falls from her grasp. 

She can’t breathe past the blood in her throat, the copper tang coating her tongue.

The stone is cool against her skin when she collapses without ceremony, the bodies of more than a dozen darkspawn surround her, some still burning from her fire, the choking stench stinging her eyes.

The world ends in red: In fire, in blood, in the sunset of the day.

She doesn’t feel Alistair’s hands on her, she doesn’t feel the warmth of his brow pressed into hers, doesn’t feel when he cradles her body against his, doesn’t taste the salt of his tears when they leave trails across the mud and the blood on her face. She doesn’t hear the words he presses with his lips into her hair.

She doesn’t hear the echoing shriek in the darkness.

-

_She stands on her tiptoes to place the heavy tome on the shelf, the pages drip red, droplets that stain her hand and melt into the dark wood of the bookcase._

_“May I help you, my dear?” The voice startles her but the hand that closes over hers on the book’s binding is warm and solid. Alistair helps her slide it into place among the others there, tomes both thick and thin line the bookshelves along the never ending wall that fades into the shadows of the floor and the ceiling. Into the nothingness that otherwise surrounds them._

_His hand doesn’t leave hers as she pulls it from the book, his thumb brushing away the red drops that speckle her otherwise clear skin._

_“Thank you.” Her brow furrows a moment “What happened with your book?”_

_He laughs low and husky as he smiles at her. “Finished it.”_

_He releases her hand and she takes the chance to cup his face between her hands. He softly clasps his hands around her wrists as he leans into her touch, turns his head slightly to lay a light kiss against her palm. He looks much like the first day they met and she smiles, and he smiles at her in turn as she tilts her head to press her lips to his in a chaste kiss._

_Alistair meets her gaze when she pulls back. Eyes bright and clear._

_“Shall we find another story love?”_


End file.
